


Living With Humans

by OldboyJensen



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dissociation, Eichenwald, Gen, PTSD, Post-Omnic Crisis, References to Depression, War, casual nudity?, comedy and trauma, here there be robots, like a really depressing sitcom, mm baskets, this is for Gunnslaughter, why are men always naked in my fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9467567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldboyJensen/pseuds/OldboyJensen
Summary: After the Swiss base is destroyed, what remains of Jack Morrison hunkers down to heal and plot. His housemates wish that he would maybe make more sense. His housemates just want to help him. What is this human man doing and why is he so frustrating?A sequel to my previous work "Wake." If you're wondering why Jack was found naked in the woods, I suggest pausing and reading that to clear things up.





	1. Basket Case

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gunnslaughter](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Gunnslaughter).



> So this story was originally going to be touched upon in "Wake," but I found a natural end to finish that on. This first chapter is pretty low key, but I promise there will be humor. Next chapter will probably be chock full of misadventures. It's gonna be a grand time. Shout out to Gunnslaughter to whom this fic is dedicated and who inspired it. And to HardGarbage who has been super supportive and gave me the challenge.  
> Please feel free to comment with stuff you liked or suggestions. Feedback is a good time.

Jack Morrison weaves baskets.

The soldier never dreams, but he does sleep. In these hours, Jack Morrison can weave his baskets in melancholy silence. Let his mind go blank. The soldier is always thinking, plotting, running all the options and schematics of each and every action. Making toast alone takes a babbling of coded internal dialogue that, if extracted, could fill a small book. Walking, lifting, eating, sitting silent—all of it is militantly calculated.

Baskets let the soldier rest.

Baskets let the man grieve.

Basket days started when he woke drowning in his own sweat with cheeks grey and lungs like broken bellows. On nights that he dreamed, this was par for course. So he would stand and head to the woods with his pocket knife. Or maybe he would forage in the remains of the town. Playing the part of gardener was soothing in its own right. Blank mind, steady blade. Collect, strip, wet, work, repeat. A basket would take him weeks to complete even if the soldier slept all those days consecutively. He had been faster when he was younger, but his baskets were more beautiful now. Tight and mismatched. Made with absent thoughts of a smiling, dark skinned man who loved pumpkins, and long night walks, and dogs, and him once. Who died in the wake of their final fight.

_“Weird hobby for you.”_

_“What did you think I do in my spare time?”_

_“Polish your medals, mostly.”_

Right. A sarcastic asshole. But he got it. He, Gabe, and Ana had all had their little coping mechanisms. Gabe’s was knitting and keeping McCree in line. Ana’s was raising Fareeha. Jack’s was his baskets. Sometimes he wove in bones and beads. Once, he made a solely artistic piece with the pelvis of a deer and collected reeds. Gabe had turned that piece over in his hands for a long time. Finding all the little details. Pointing them out like Jack didn’t know they were there.

_“Who taught you?”_

_“I did.”_

_“Why?”_

_“I saw it at a fair once. Dad saw it as a craft. Something useful. So he didn’t object.”_

_“How the hell did you teach yourself?”_

_“By making some really shitty baskets.”_

Ana kept granola and protein bars in the one he made for her. Reinhardt kept letters. Torbjorn had always used his for loose screws and nuts and stuff, getting it greasy. Thankfully, Jack had planned for that. He never did see Gabe’s basket after giving it to him. If it had been at the Swiss base, it was gone now. All of them were. But now there was a new set. Lovely ghosts of the old ones. Each built on days of mindless remembering.

But only those days the soldier allotted.

Because there were more important things to attend to than mourning the good times.

There were secrets to be dug up.

And nosy housemates to appease.

“Human soldier,” Janice found him in his workshop one day, weaving away, “Do you require additional portions of jam? There is a market happening currently, down in town.”

Flash a ghost of the commander smile, “I think we have enough. Thank you, though.”

She paused, the lens around her eye contracting, “You are smiling.”

It wavered.

“Well, yes. Why?”

“The smile is a hominid attribute to denote happiness. Your neuro transmitters are not-“

“Janice…please stop bioscanning me.”

“Affirmative, however,” she paused at the door, “perhaps it would be less necessary to monitor your vitals if you would not go days without the proper intake of nutrients or sleep. This is a suggestion.”

The door slammed behind her.

Jack fell back into numbness and continued to weave.

\-----------

Whether they had found him or he them would remain up for debate probably forever as long as the soldier and Janice could argue. And they did. All the time.

The pair of omnics had encountered the naked, freezing man in the deep border forest between Switzerland and Germany. How he managed to cover so much ground with frostbite and various wounds from the explosion was another thing up for debate, but they found him in a cave nonetheless. Unconscious.

He was lucky they dressed in clothing whenever they left their stronghold. Otherwise he might have stayed sleeping instead of waking up in a long green sundress and a two oversized tweed sweaters. Blue eye-ports trained on him around a warm fire.

And of course the first thing our favorite soldier did was coldcock the three eyed one square in the fucking face.

Back to sleep he went.

The next time the soldier woke up, his hands were tied with a scarf.

“Epinephrine spikes cause irrational behavior in the average homo sapiens sapiens,” the one eyed one had stated, with a slight edge to its mechanic voice, “However, it would be much appreciated if you could attempt to be above average for at least a short period of time.”

“Who the hell are you? Did they send you to finish the job?”

His mouth tasted like sand and dry mucus. The words barely growled out.

“There is no need for hostility, homo sapiens sapiens.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“You failed to give an alternative before attempting to offline my companion. Unless you are now open to exchanging introductions without hormonal violence, that is your name.”

“How about you go first, seeing as you’re the ones who have me tied up.”

“Affirmative. I am Bee Eye Em Ar Em, Nine Zero Five.”

“Low number.”

Its lens clicked in agitation, “We are a specialty class. My companion does not speak English. I will introduce him: Bee Ar Yu Five Seven Seven Zero Nine. Now doctrines of human custom would dictate an introduction from yourself.”

He didn’t answer right away. The name Jack Morrison burned his tongue, and he snarled. Swallowing it.

“I’m just a soldier.”

“A human soldier.”

“ _Yes_.”

“Understood. Well, human soldier, you are in terrible condition, and it is in my programming to aide those whose biological systems are as sup-par as yours. If some persons are coming to “finish the job,” which in movies would mean “kill you,” it is possible that we could afford you shelter. If you cease to be a violent prick and never ‘lay another hand’ on Zero Nine. If you fail to comply, please note that I am very capable of killing you myself.”

The soldier considered. Walking off to who knows where with two strange omnics was an idiotic move. But then. He needed to lay low. And if they were involved with the bombing… well then he would have the satisfaction of ripping off their limbs and yanking circuits. Like old times.

“What kind of shelter are we talking?”

“A good place to lay low.”

He winced.

“It is rigorously avoided by both omnics and humans. An old castle town. The war destroyed it.”

“Eichenwald.”

“Yes.”

“I won’t stay for long.”

“Affirmative… When you believe you are somewhat fit to be moved, we can begin calculating a route.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

That encounter would, as we know, eventually result in the ghost of Jack Morrison sitting in his workshop with blistered hands working fiber after fiber into place.

He would only have completed twenty baskets by the time he left the broken town’s shell behind him.

 


	2. Jam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow Long Hiatus! Thankfully Gunnslaughter's been begging for a continuation so I had the motivation to do some more! Love ya you angst boss, please enjoy your "Humans." Comments are always super appreciated!

“Good morning salesperson merchant. My name is Human… Janice and this is my husband… Human Steven. We have stopped by your place of commercial exchange with the intent to purchase some of your fine… jam. Our human child requires nutrients.”

Sun glinted from cobblestones and cars. “Human Janice’s” floppy wide brim hat might have cast her absent face into shadow, but it could not hide the soft blue glow of her eye-port. Or her neck. Or chin. Or hands. Likewise useless was “Human Steven’s” baseball cap and ornamental cloak.

Alina had to take a moment to consider how to reply to their request.

“You do exchange reduced fruit canning and such for monetary notes here, correct?”

“Ah, yes we do. Um, what- what kinds would you like to purchase?” She gestured vaguely to the mobile cart that held her wares, “Or you can browse, um, if you aren’t sure.”

“We will do that, yes. Thank you for your assistance.”

While Janice bioscanned the nutrient contents of preserves down in a nearby village, the Soldier began to wake up in his strange new sanctuary. Reinhardt had never talked about his hometown outside of war stories, so Soldier had no reference point for how the place was supposed to look. He assumed there had been less rubble and scrapped omnics back then. Hopefully.

This began the morning of the Soldier’s first day in Eichenwald. A stranger in every sense of the word. He touched his face gingerly. Still somewhat warm. Not hot. No direct pain. Just an overall ache. But she had gotten rid of infection in the few days they were holed up in the woods. Waited to move him. Set up an IV to herself. That med bot did know what she was doing. Somehow. How she had gotten her servos on surgical thread, he was not going to question. As long as he ignored all the weirdness, it wouldn’t be a problem.

And there was a lot of weirdness.

The soldier rolled into a sitting position carefully despite the protests from his ribs. There were more lacerations than he’d thought, and a few cracked ribs. He tried not to feel a pang of respect for Jack Morrison managing to get so far away from the base before collapsing. Poor idiot.

He shook his head.

Regret was instant. Eyes squeezed shut, the Soldier took a few minutes to reclaim his brain from the vertigo. Concussion. Injury. All sorts of things wrong.

And he was hungry. That was one thing they couldn’t find in the forest. Or more like, he wasn’t sure the omnics knew what food was? And where they were currently was anyone’s guess. Where he was currently was equally a mystery. Until his vision cleared.

The carpet caught his attention first: he was on a somewhat raised platform looking out on a long, faded red carpet in a darkened hall. Pillars and a high, high ceiling came into focus. Broken bastion units with scattered servos littered the floor. Turning, he could see one just a few feet from where his head had been laying on a pile of… hats? He’d been sleeping in the long green dress the med bot had met him in, but the Soldier hadn’t noticed the dozen others piled on top of him in his sleep. It would have been a funny scene for Reyes to walk in on. To burst through those doors pissed, out of breath, and alive. His frown melting into confusion… a moment of processing, then that loud beautiful laughter. He would gesture to Ana, wheezing as she entered to stare and blink at Jack buried under dusty dresses in the shadow of a dead giant.

A dead giant.

The Soldier cursed at the recognition of that armor. The count. Surrounded by dead omnics. Still in his crusader armor. He would be so proud of Reinhardt. If he were alive. But he wasn’t. Neither was Gabe. Ana had been abandoned to her death. Overwatch would fall. Rein and Torb were the only ones left. These were facts.

But why?

Everything aside, there was no way in hell the Soldier was staying another second in this damned tomb of a hall.

“Fuck vertigo,” he grumbled, and hobbled against the stars in his eyes as fast as his broken body could carry him.

\----

The “humans” found the Soldier collapsed on the bridge outside the castle. Nearly freezing to death. Again. And getting sunburnt. Somehow.

Once he woke up, it took a while for him to stop being a “vague jackass,” (as coined by the one eyed omnic who reintroduced herself as Janice) and explain the problem. They left him in a warm spot with blankets and seventeen jars of jam, and returned with good news.

“We have processed your request for alternate housing accommodations,” Janice informed the Soldier while he finger scooped reduced blueberries into his mouth, “We have found a smaller dwelling that you may find more comfortable. We will relocate supplies to this location in order to monitor your well-being. However, I urge you again to consider your physical health and follow protocol that has been set for your benefit.”

The three eyed omnic, now called Steven, beep-booped in agreement.

“I appreciate it.”

“More than appreciation appears necessary to keep you alive, Soldier.”

“Well good thing I’m hard to kill.”

“That response is asinine and testosterone fueled, please consider the alternative which is that you are… the phrase? One foot in the grave? My recall informs me that this is the correct term for those who are perpetually dying via their own hominid idiocy.”

“Yeah, you got it.”

He stood, and found himself collapsing on to Steven’s shoulder which appeared in a flash to brace him. The irony made him bark out a laugh. Steven beeped along.

Janice’s eye contracted in un-amusement.

“Steven, please carry the invalid to his new quarters. I will take care of the Jam.”

Bridal Style, Steven carried out his orders. The city slowly passed by the three on the trip. Clunk clunk. Each clunk set the Soldier’s face in a new grimace as his bones shifted and clunked along to Steven’s steps. Fear fell away replaced by irritation.

“I can walk.”

“Incorrect.

“You really have a way with words.”

“You really treat your body like refuse.”

“ ’S Not much other than that, at this point if I can’t make it ten feet.”

“You were wounded at the explosion of Overwatch’s Swiss Base. We found you forty miles east. Ten feet is just the stamina you have relied on running out. It can return.”

“What did you just say?”

“Do you wish me to roll back my audio tape?”

“The Swiss Base. What the hell are you talking about?” He wriggles momentarily but falls limp in Steven’s arms again.

“There was an explosion. You were wounded in it.”

“ _And how the hell do you know that?”_

A robotic face may not be the best at expressing exasperation, but somehow Janice managed to overcome her limitations.

“Where else would you, calling yourself a Human Soldier, be burned and covered in soot with heavy internal bruising if not an explosion? That was where we were headed. Our paths intersecting is not a logically difficult concept.”

“Why were you headed there.”

“That is no business of yours.”

“I hope not. You’re taking the long road in killing me if it is.”

She turned away from him then, scanning the horizon and the ruins of the city. They passed the husk of a Bastion nearly choking in dead weeds. Janice carefully laid down her jam and kneeled before the dead omnic. Her hands worked deftly to tear the plants away. She stood, tossed the weeds off to the side, pressed her palms together briefly, and gathered up her jars again.

“There was no need for you to wait, Steven.”

A boop in response.

“You do that with all of them?”

“Affirmative. Unless it is wild flowers. Those serve well as memorial.”

“I see. Were you stationed here?”

“Again, no business of yours,” she points up ahead, “There is where we will be re-locating.”

He followed her finger to find a barn on the outskirts of the town. A crumbling farmhouse with broken windows and a rusted windmill sat a few hundred yards away.

“That’s a barn.”

“Is it inadequate?”

“No.”

“We have made you a bed inside for better sleeping comfort as I have learned is a human custom.”

The “bed” was an eight foot high pile of hay. The Soldier stared at it for a few solid minutes. Jack Morrison’s mind piped up that they could have just gotten a mattress from one of the hundreds of houses.

“That’s a damn good bed.”

And it was. He buried himself up to the neck and despite the mustiness, vague mold smell, and damn awful itchiness, it was comfortable enough to sleep in. Or uncomfortable enough. Not to say that he slept great, but he did sleep. That night he dreamed of Ana and smoke. He back was to him as she stared out at the ruins of their home. He spent half the dream praying she’d turn around, and half praying she wouldn’t. That was the first dream. The second was water. Held underwater. No not water. It was a tank. A familiar dream he hadn’t had in years. He turned to his left. The tank next to his was empty save a body pillow of a shirtless McCree from that god-awful calendar photoshoot.

He woke up screaming and clammy with hay stuck to his everything. Reyes had always been in the tank before. Dead, but he had been there.

His fears were changing.

Well…not too much.

That _fucking calendar._

The only good thing about the explosion was that all the copies there would be destroyed.

\----

 

The Soldier’s second day, and the rest of the next dozen, were spent healing physically. He submitted to Janice’s logic, but not without fighting the babying at every step he could. She guarded him that first day in the barn while Steven travelled back and forth from the castle bringing an impressive amount of technologies and medical supplies that Janice then fixed up and figured out.  

“How the hell you going to get those working with no generator?”

“There’s a generator at the far side of the barn. You cannot see it currently because you are on a horizontal plane. Do not attempt to get up.”

“Where did it come from?”

“Human civilians hid it in here. It could be assumed they planned to go back for it. We have sufficient oil to keep it running.”

“Oh.”

“You will not get a signal for any transmitting devices, however. I am the only mode of accessing external data. I was programmed for that.”

“Huh. And what else?”

“Biomedical procedures.”

“On humans?”

“Omnics do not fall under the category “biomedical,” Human Soldier.”

“You have a real charm.”

“Your sarcasm is not outside my realm of detecting. And so I return that comment to you.”

It went on this way for days. The Soldier pressing for information, the Human couple pressing him to rest. Steven was not a very compliant conversation partner, and the Soldier got the sense that, of the two, the three eyed Bastion Repair Unit held him in much more distrust. The soldier didn’t blame him, considering their first interaction was a punch from me to you. Still, it was interesting. His mind constantly calculating, the Soldier survived boredom those first two weeks by pestering and sizing up his hosts. Janice was always a sharp reply. Mostly to tell him to mind his own business, but occasionally things slipped through. On the fifth day, he heard her humming the opening tune of the ancient show “Little Einsteins.”On the seventh, she asked him if he had brushed his teeth. He responded that, how the hell was he supposed to do that without a toothbrush and what am I seven? The next morning, an entire bucket of toothbrushes was at the head of his bed. Along with more jam.  Some flavors apparently experimental.

He rated the bacon apple 7 out of 5.

By the tenth day, the Soldier was allowed to walk about in the barn. He began to stop up leaks and breezy patches with hay. On the twelfth, Janice granted him permission to climb into the loft. More hay. Something he had noticed, however, was the lack of rodents.

“This is a clean barn.”

“Is that a negative trait?”

“No, just surprising.”

And on the thirteenth day, The Soldier emerged from the barn to raid the farmhouse.

“This is unwise, the building is structurally unstable.”

“Well you don’t have to come in.”

“Negative; if you fall through the floor I must be here to catch you.”

“Thanks Glados.”

“Will you stop with that I already explained that I find the reference insulting.”

Dust hanging in the air was gilded by sunlight breaking through the glassless windows and rotten walls. Everything creaked and smelled of age. Mold here as well. Rat droppings and chewed strips of carpet made cobweb shrouded balls in the dark corners of the living room. The Soldier found himself breathing a bit heavier than he wanted. It was the fabric on the couch. Across the sea, another farmhouse had had that same gaudy floral. He fought the urge to check for a grape juice stain on the middle cushion. He couldn’t even look beyond the living room to the kitchen.

“Do not go up the stairs,” Janice warned as the Soldier climbed the stairs lightly as possible.

A step gave way and snapped under his foot, clattering into the dark under the staircase. He ignored it. He’d become good at ignoring things. Like Janice’s irritated complaints from the first floor as he crested and made it to the landing. A rat ran over his foot. It stank up here, but the doors were unlocked.

The first room he shut as soon as he opened it and saw the crib and little bed placed side by side. The second was the master bedroom. Here, he entered.

“What are you hoping to accomplish?”

He passed the dresser, stepping carefully. It was an oak vanity. For a moment, he couldn’t help but pause and wipe the dust from the mirror. The face that looked back was duller somehow and stitched in two jagged lines down the middle. Sunken dusty eyes, dark circles, greying hair. He put a hand to his chin and rubbed two weeks worth of pseudo beard. The Soldier recognized himself. Jack Morrison did not. He turned away. The beard would be good to grow out.

In the closet, he found what he was looking for. Flannel. Mothballs. Jeans. Overalls. Funny how change could bring you full circle. There was a big brown leather jacket and a long yellow sundress as well. He pulled them out.

The mirror caught him as he changed. Underwear in the drawer was suitable enough. Tight. He spotted himself and paused before glaring at his reflection and pulling his arms through shirtsleeves and zipping up those oddly roomy jeans.

_You’ve lost weight._

_No shit._

Janice escorted her Soldier from the farmhouse wearing her new dress and helping to carry the jacket and some shirts from the bundle. They walked without talking, but just before they entered the barn, she reached out a hand and touched his jaw with one finger.

“What?”

 “It is a comforting touch. Did it have any effect?”

He thought about that for a moment.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

 

Back in the master bedroom, the vanity mirror now lay face-down under the bed.


End file.
